


Number 45

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Degrading kink, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Gun Kink, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Historical, Improvised Sex Toys, Love/Hate, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot, Politics, Power Play, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sex, Submission, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17970194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: 2016, shortly after the United States presidential election. Russia stands accused of interfering in the democratic process. America, his gun, and years of unresolved sexual tension visit to discuss the matter.





	Number 45

**Author's Note:**

> I promise one day I will write actual backstory for these complex motherheckers, but for now... Here's a lot of smut to celebrate my OTP. Enjoy!

Moscow hadn’t been particularly peaceful, of late. There was always some new political rouse or social outrage to attend to. It wasn’t unusual, but peaceful wasn’t the word either.

Even among the typical tension and toil, Russia had developed a comfortable sense of routine; one he supposed he’d come to take for granted. He didn’t appreciate just how _quiet_ things had been, until they weren’t anymore.

A violent banging at his door startled him from his desk. He wasn’t expecting company. He straightened against the high leather back of his chair. His chin rose, eyes locking on the wall in front of him as he listened. He hadn’t heard a knock with that much force behind it since…

“Open up, dude! I know you’re home. Not like you have any friends to go visit. Let me in!”

Irritation drilled sharp pains into Russia’s skull. He let his head tip forward into his palm and tried to knead away the ache. If that voice continued—And Russia knew it would—he’d need a handful of aspirin. Soon.

Of course—His attention caught on a half-empty bottle resting on the coffee table—vodka would work just as well.

“Open the goddamn door, Russia.” America’s voice sounded again, lower this time. A warning. Russia turned to see the door strain against its hinges with the next series of pounds. “ _I’ll_ open it if you don’t.”

Patience had never been America’s strong suit. But then, Russia had learned that long ago. He doubted he’d ever forget, so he could only wonder why America insisted on reminding him every couple of years. He sighed and pushed back from his workspace. Still so much business left incomplete, but Russia considered himself nothing if not adaptable. He had a more pressing task for now. One that was about to turn his doorjamb to splinters.

Russia opened his front door. A golden blur shoved past him. He took a moment to look out over his front lawn. A light dusting of snow glittered on stiff blades of grass. He wished the snowfall were heavier this week. Bad weather usually warded off pests.

Yet, when he shut his door and turned, the biggest pest Russia knew was pacing his kitchen floor. America’s face was flushed, clearly more from anger than cold. His eyes flashed behind his glasses in a brilliant blaze of blue. It was such a familiar thing, but distant too. Something stirred deep in Russia’s chest. He wrote it off as thirst. His focus slipped back to the bottle of vodka.

“I always knew you were fucked up, but did you really think I wouldn’t retaliate after something like this? Did you seriously delude yourself _that_ bad?” America rounded on him with clenched fists. “It’s like you’re daring me to come after you. Like you’re so _bored_ of living in this winter _wasteland_ , you can’t think of anything better to do than play baseball with a hornet’s nest, huh?”

“Good evening, America.” Russia let his eyes sweep back to him. “Can I take your coat?”

America bit off a smile so sharp, Russia had to shift away from it, just slightly. “No. But apparently, you _can_ take over my fucking electoral process. Hey, do you think before you do stupid stuff, or do you just throw a dart at a board of suicide tactics?”

“I think about where I want to throw the dart.” Russia shrugged.

“You _sabotaged my election_ , dude!” America stopped a foot away from Russia. His hair was a golden mess, his shirt rumpled beneath that ridiculous bomber jacket he lived in. Russia wanted to curl his fingers into its front pocket. He ground his fingers into his own palm instead, punishing.

“I suppose you’re convinced you’re entirely guiltless in all of this.” Russia gestured toward the living room and, without waiting for America, led the way inside. A hot presence filled the space at his back. He could almost feel America’s frenzied expression, the way he curled his lip to reveal a row of perfectly white teeth. He kept walking.

“Are you kidding me?” America’s voice rose an octave. He followed though, and Russia settled into one of the leather armchairs beside his coffee table. His muscles ached all of a sudden. He sighed and reached to massage the back of his neck. America went on. “My country operates democratically. We run clean elections. Elections that are _supposed_ to be _fair_ and give the People what they want. Only this time, it comes out that you interfered with—”

“From what I understand, neither of your candidates was particularly attractive to your public.” A fair brow quirked upwards. “Neither one was what 'the People’ wanted.”

“Okay, sure, but we had way better options than the Great Pumpkin, who's fucking everything up with his weird baby hands now.”

“Your system is the one that allowed him to run in the first place. Knowing what he was, who he was friends with, you permitted it.” Russia leaned back in his chair. “I can't help but think a part of you wanted this.”

“What the hell are you… It's not like I could just jump in, guns blazing, and scream, 'Hey, this guy can't run for office—Even though he legally meets all of our requirements—because I don't like him!’ You really think, like, Hoover and Nixon would have touched the White House if I had a say?” America gave a high, sharp laugh. “I can't take away someone's rights just because I feel like it.”

Russia smirked. “Isn't that what you've always done?”

Confusion dominated America's expression. Then, his eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

Russia waved away the challenge with a gloved hand. “Share a drink with me, America.”

America's brow creased over his glasses, which he shoved up the ridge of his nose with a palm. His shoulders were stiff beneath the black fur of his jacket. He said nothing, though Russia suspected he wanted to. He didn’t move from his spot.

Russia smiled, a pale thing. He spread his palms. “It seems we are going to be working very closely together, yes? We should at least learn to be comfortable again.” He nodded at the leather seat across from him. “Come. Sit.”

America edged forward. Every muscle was tense, like a predator ready to pounce its prey. Only, Russia thought, it was the other way around. A single chuckle rumbled in his chest. He leaned forward and felt America watching him, cautious. Every motion was under scrutiny as he twisted open a bottle of vodka, dragged two glasses over, and poured generous servings into both with a soft series of _glugs_. He paused, examined the cups, then filled one slightly higher and picked it up.

“To the presidents’ health,” he allowed.

“Oh. In that case.” In a flash, America's glass shattered on the opposite wall. Russia watched the cascade of splinters over the hardwood floor and sucked back some of his drink. He lifted his boots away from the spreading stain of vodka below.

“You made a mess of my home,” he observed.

“And _you_ made a mess of my democratic process!”

Russia sighed. He set aside his glass, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I fail to see how this is my fault. Though, I'm sure you'll waste no time telling me.”

“Oh, well, let's see. There's the fact that you totally hacked our voting systems and the Democratic National Committee to release some pretty damning emails, which you had no right nosing around in, by the way. You spread misinformation about my boss's opponent and offered him intelligence that gave him an upper hand when—”

“What does your law say about that again?”

“You know foreign nationals are prohibited from making any contribution of money or other things of value in connection with any U.S. election,” America said, as though reciting a memorized document. “You _know_ that.”

“'Things of value…’” Russia mused. He sat back again. “Sounds vague.”

“Yeah. That's the _problem_. That's why nobody can agree what to do about this whole shitty situation. No one seems to know exactly what parts of it were criminal, or who's to blame.” America paused. His eyes flashed dangerously. There was a spike in Russia's blood. He _knew_ that look. “But _I_ know.”

They drew their guns at the same time. America whipped his from his jacket, held it at arm's length, eyes wild, chest heaving. Russia stayed sitting. He waved his own pistol lazily, never straying far from his chest.

“I thought we were done with this,” he said dryly. “But isn’t that just like you? Parading around with shiny weapons and making empty threats.” His eyes fell to the metal barrel aimed at his forehead. “You even polished it.”

 “That Rasputin guy was hard to kill,” America's hand flexed. “But even he was stopped by a bullet.”

“Three,” Russia corrected.

“I don't think you're that lucky.”

“Have a drink with me,” Russia repeated. He gestured to the chair across from him with his gun. America tensed at the motion. “Really, anyone else would take this insult to heart, but I’m familiar with your...impulses. Sometimes, they even benefit me.”

“I’m not being impulsive.” America’s jaw clenched. “Ha. No. Impulsive would have been shooting on sight, and asking questions while you were bleeding out in the doorway.”

“I’m grateful for your restraint,” Russia said dryly. He gestured again and watched as America cautiously lowered himself into his seat. His gun stayed level with Russia’s skull. “Feel free to ask your questions now. No lethal injuries required.”

“Why?” America scowled. He shoved up his glasses with the heel of his free hand. “Why'd you do it?”

“Get inside your system?” Russia’s pale smile returned. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes. “I do so love to be inside you.”

America did a poor job suppressing his shiver. “You're tearing apart my country, everything it represents, and you don't even care.”

 _Please_. Russia fought the urge to roll his eyes. _As though you haven't been breaking all your own rules since the day you wrote them._

“So you don't like the man.” Russia poised his gun at America. His other hand reached for his glass, swirling the clear liquid inside. “Wait a few years. There will be another election. Or, if he is as terrible as you seem to believe, he will be impeached. You have that safety net in place, no?”

“This isn't just about _him_.” America slammed a fist on the table. Russia’s eyes flicked to America's finger, which twitched too firmly over his trigger. The younger nation leaned forward. His knee bumped the table and the glass shivered in response. “You think you can take advantage of me. You think you have a puppet leading me, and I bet you think I'll become your puppet too. But I'm _done_ with that shit. Alright? I do my own thing now. That's the whole ideal my country was born on. I don't answer to anyone. Nobody tells me what to do anymore. I'm in control. Me. Do you get that?”

“You're in control…” Russia mused. “Yet, look at you now. You don't even have the strength to do what it would take to get me out of your way.”

“Believe me, it's taking a lot more strength for me _not_ to splatter your brains on the wall right now.”

Russia snorted. He raised his beverage to his lips, and America thrust his gun forward. Russia raised a brow. “I am only taking a drink.”

America's aim chased Russia's cup as it tilted up, washed Russia's tongue with the sweet sting of vodka, and clicked back on the table. Silver glinted in the lamplight.

“Drop your weapon, America.” Russia tossed his own pistol down before filling his cup again. He offered it out. “Take this instead. You could use it.”

America's jaw set hard. He searched Russia's face, the drink, his gun. Finally, he threw his weapon down and drained the glass with a hiss. Russia watched his throat work around the liquid, the way his face twisted at the burn of it.

“What _was_ that?” America hissed, blinking back tears before he thought Russia noticed them. Russia chuckled.

“We do things right in the motherland,” he joked. Then, less jokingly, “Which is why you should really accept our aid in your own country.”

“Aid.” America spat the word. Drops of vodka spattered on the table. “You're only _aiding_ all the bigoted jerks popping up all over the place. Maybe they'll thank you. I won't.”

“I have a secret for you.” Russia leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, his voice low. “I didn't create the bigots, America. They were always there. They're just coming out of the woodwork now. Perhaps this is the time to begin examining them. Figure out how to change them, instead of pretending you ever got rid of them in the first place.”

A muscle twitched in America’s cheek. Even from across the table, Russia could tell that his lips were dry. He had the urge to lick them, but America did first. Then, his mouth opened on, “You know there are some people who say we’re heading into a second Cold War.”

Russia snorted. “You know better than that, America. Don’t you remember the Cold War? You were there. We had nuclear crises. Hydrogen bombs and proxy wars. Both of us were ready to destroy the world at a sneeze. No. This is no Cold War.”

Russia leaned his weight against the arm of his chair and went on. “If anything, I believe this is an era of renewed friendship for us. Your boss has spoken very fondly about mine. Didn’t he say he wanted the two of us to have a stronger relationship?”

“He also said—”

“Listen to me.” Moving fluidly, Russia leaned forward to appraise the other nation more closely. His voice dropped again. “Our bosses will not keep us from each other this time. This is not another Stalin situation. We can be close again.”

America’s eyes flicked back and forth before he said, unconvincingly, “I don’t want to be close with you.”

“That hurts my feelings.” Russia frowned, unamused. “I am thinking I’ll need another drink to cope.”

America rolled his eyes. Then, he reached forward and closed one hand around the bottle. His other hand lifted their shared glass. Carefully, he raised it up to pour and— _There._

Russia’s hand curled around a length of cool metal: His pipe, tucked discreetly beneath his chair. Slowly, he drew it out from under him. America glanced up just as the faucet at the end came into view. All at once, he dropped the glass and lunged for his gun. Russia was faster. He swept his pipe across the table and sent America’s pistol clattering across the floor. Then, the pipe cracked back into America’s wrist and America stumbled with a yelp.

Russia snatched his own firearm off the table. America dove for his. His knees hit the floor and his arms stretched out and—Russia clicked off his safety.

“Don’t move.” He barked the warning in Russian. Then, remembering his American friend only spoke one language— _barely_ —he switched back to English. “Hands up, America. Now.”

America froze. His back was to Russia, eyes locked on the gun in front of him. It was _so close_. A pity. Russia smiled to himself. He swung his pipe around to shatter the bottle of vodka. The explosion of glass made America startle. Russia took a step closer. His boots crunched over broken shards.

“I want you to think,” he said, “very, very well about your next move.”

Russia saw the gears working in America’s head. He watched as the blonde weighed the risks of every option. Cold sweat beaded on his throat. Vaguely, Russia wondered what it would be like to close his teeth around it. Then, slowly, America raised his hands above his head. A strangled laugh left him.

“You’re a bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Russia stepped around in front of America and kicked away the discarded gun. He kept his own trained on the younger nation. “Stand up.”

America clasped his hands behind his head. Carefully, he got a knee beneath himself. Pushed himself onto one foot, and then the other. And then he was straightening up, and his eyes didn’t leave Russia’s the entire time. Russia smiled.

“Nothing funny. My humor’s run out for the day.” He propped his pipe against the wall with all the tenderness of a mother cat handling her kitten. Two of his fingers hooked into the wrist of his opposite glove and he flicked the article off, onto the floor. “America?”

America watched him, anticipating every move. “Russia.”

Russia hummed at the sound of his name, said like _that_. So full of caution and distrust. “Tell me which one is colder. This?”

He skirted a finger up the back of America’s neck. A tremble skipped all the way down America’s spine. His face didn’t give him away, but his body always did. America’s skin nearly scorched Russia’s own, and Russia knew he must feel like ice.

“Or this?”

Russia raised his gun next and used it to push America’s hair off his forehead. Then, the metal traced the curve of America’s ear. A little gasp caught on America’s lips, then died when he sucked it back down. _He likes it._

“Well?” His other hand cupped America’s cheek, forcing the other nation to look at him. “Which one is it?”

“Your hand is as cold as your twisted-up heart,” America seethed. “So, that one.”

“Don't you have emergency plans for situations like this?” Russia guided the muzzle up the back of America's neck, ruffled his hairline. “I'd think you would, with all the gun violence you're accustomed to.”

“Maybe I already have reinforcements on their way,” America said, and then choked when Russia jammed his gun up under his chin.

“You don’t.” Russia smiled again. This time, he wondered if it passed as cheerful. “You like to play hero too much to let others help you. Besides, it would be embarrassing for your men to walk in on you trembling around another nation’s cock.”

America shuddered. His eyes flinched shut and he tilted his head toward the ceiling. By now, his arms were growing tired, and Russia followed them with his gaze as they lowered to his sides. “ _That’s_ what you think is about to happen here.”

“Who would help you anyway?” Russia pressed. He didn’t bother responding to America’s last comment; they both knew what they were there for. His gun pressed in harder. “Your _allies?_ Canada? England?”

America stiffened. Russia knew he’d struck something. He kept on with a sneer.

“Do you think he would come to take you back for himself? He’s wanted to, ever since you became independent.” His gun moved to sketch America’s bottom lip. “I suppose this would be his perfect excuse: Walking in and seeing you underneath me, delirious and crying with pleasure.”

“Wow…” America breathed. “And people say _I_ talk a lot.”

America’s arm shifted. Russia’s eyes flicked down. All at once, he realized—America’s hand was buried deep in his pocket. And then it wasn’t, because he was pulling something out, and the glint of silver nearly blinded him. Russia clutched his trigger.

Then, _flame_.

It streaked across the back of Russia’s hand, seared his skin red. Russia hissed and recoiled from… From that _damn Zippo lighter_. His lip curled and his flesh blistered, loosening his grip on the gun. America knocked it away. It landed somewhere near the other one, out of sight. Russia sucked down a breath. Instinctively, his hand went to his mouth and he licked at his burn, soothing it.

“You were cold,” America explained. He flicked open the Zippo again, and fire jumped at his command. “Thought I’d warm you up. Nice villain monologue, though. I really—”

Russia’s burnt hand cracked against America’s cheek. The crunching of bone was worth the pain that flared up his own arm. America’s head snapped sideways. He stumbled, catching his cheek with an open-mouthed exclamation. For a second, he appeared dazed. Then, his eyes found Russia’s again and lit up with laughter.

“Okay, so that’s how we’re doing this.”

America lunged. His hands fisted into Russia’s coat, driving him a few paces backwards. A stream of accusations bubbled from his lips.

“You fucked with my election. You undermined my integrity. You mocked, and taunted, and belittled me. And I’m _not_ going to fucking _take_ that from you. I’m the strongest nation in the world and I’m not gonna take that from _anyone_.”

Russia let America shove him. They reeled back together, America leading, Russia buckling under his strength. Then, Russia planted his heel against the floor. They stopped. America collided with his chest. He startled, then pushed again. And again, with all his power behind him. Russia didn’t budge.

“What…?” America looked at either of his hands, bewildered, as though he couldn’t fathom their failure. His gaze flicked to Russia’s. Liquid ice pooled in smiling violet eyes.

“Does this really come as a surprise to you?” Russia took a step forward. America staggered back with a sharp intake of air. “Really. I had power over your election.” He took another step, forcing America to retreat. “Power over the minds of your voters.” Another step, so the backs of America’s legs pressed into a leather chair. “And now?” Russia halted. He leaned forward, smiling, and America careened back. Russia caught his arms to keep him from falling. “America, I have power over _you_.”

“You don’t,” America insisted, breathless. Blue eyes darted from Russia's humored gaze, to his thin smile, to the large hands circled around his wrists. “You _don’t_.”

“No?” Russia chuckled when America tried to struggle away. He took half a step, so his body pressed against America’s own. His breath caressed America’s cheek. “You wouldn’t say your hands are…a bit tied? With this situation?”

Realization flashed in America's eyes. He wrenched his arms free and clutched Russia’s scarf. He pulled, tight, and Russia choked out a laugh.

“No, no, no.” Russia squeezed America’s forearms hard enough to bruise. America retaliated, yanking harder on the scarf. He cut off Russia’s air supply, his flow of blood, but only for a second. Then, Russia lurched forward, driving America off his feet.

America tumbled over the arm of the chair. He landed on his back with a jarring _thud_. The wind knocked out of his lungs. Somewhere along the way, he’d dropped the tails of Russia’s scarf. Russia gathered them up again. Gingerly, he untangled the fabric from his throat.

“Motherfucker…” America groaned, blinking out of his daze. He shifted away from the glass on the floor and winced at the obvious pain in his bones. By then, Russia was already upon him.

“You are needing taming, yes?” Russia knelt over America’s body. A long shadow cast over him, eclipsing golden skin with darkness. “Let me help.”

He grabbed America’s shoulder and hauled him bodily onto his side. America shouted, tried to squirm away, but Russia’s boot ground down into his ribs. America froze. His chest stuttered on a breath. Russia leaned forward, increasing the weight on top of him. America grunted, then forced himself to silence.

“I am not done,” Russia pushed through his teeth. He thrust his heel between America’s shoulder blades and _shoved_. America’s forehead smacked against the floor when he landed on his front. Frantically, he began worming his arms out from where they were trapped beneath him. Russia allowed it.

“Good boy,” Russia cooed. “You are making my job easier.”

“What—?” America tried twisting around but Russia dropped down onto him. His knee crushed into America’s spine. A high, thin noise escaped the blonde before he caught himself. “Fucking…heavy.”

“America,” Russia purred his name, pleased when he felt a tremor beneath him. “It is rude to comment on someone’s weight.” He ground his knee in harder. America yelped and something hot flared in Russia’s gut. _Beautiful_. “England did a poor job teaching you manners. Luckily, I know some tricks I do not think you’ll be forgetting.”

Carefully, he wrapped each end of his scarf around either hand. This time, when he pressed his knee in and America’s head snapped back, Russia looped the fabric around the front of his neck. The instant it touched America’s skin, he started thrashing, struggling to buck Russia off.

Russia paid no mind. He adjusted his weight and crossed either end of the scarf to his opposite hands. Then, he pulled so hard, America’s head jerked off the floor, even as Russia kept his chest pinned. America choked, sputtering incoherent protests. Already, his face flushed red, then purple. Russia watched, mesmerized by the changing colors. _Like a chameleon._

“You are so cute when you pretend to put up a fight.” Russia bowed his head to kiss America’s cheek. America’s teeth bared, his eyes twisted shut as he fought to breathe. Russia frowned and allowed some slack on the scarf—But only so he could start tying America’s hands together.

“Fucker,” America spat between gasps of air. “Commie. Cheat.”

“Don’t pull. You will strangle yourself,” Russia advised when he finished his final knot. Now, America’s shoulders strained backwards. His arms were bound together from wrist to elbow. And, of course, the rest of the scarf coiled tight around his throat. “Come with me now.”

He stood, hauling America along with him. He half-dragged, half-carried him to the other side of the room. America’s knees scrambled beneath him, fighting for leverage that Russia wouldn’t give. Strained noises choked out of him every time he lost his balance and the scarf caught his throat. Then, Russia stepped into the pile of broken glass. He ground his boots deliberately into the shards, so they shrieked underfoot and let America know where he was heading. America stiffened.

“Wait—” America gulped down a threat or a plea. He tried to find his footing. Russia jostled him so his knees hit the floor again. America twisted his arms and accidentally choked himself. “Wait, Russia, the _glass—_ ”

“Most of this is your fault,” Russia said simply. He grabbed America with both hands and heaved him through the broken pieces.

“Shit, shit, shit, _shit_.” America’s legs kicked out behind him. He tried to stand, fell, and hissed when glass tore at his clothing. It bit his skin, made him bleed, and he did _such a good job_ holding all his pretty sounds in.

“You should not have made a mess,” Russia said, mopping him across the floor a second time, “if you did not intend to clean it up.” Then, when America cried out, Russia’s voice softened. “Poor little baby. Does this hurt you?”

America went rigid. There was a challenge in his voice when he spoke. “No.”

“Oh. Good.” He raked America through the pile again.

This time when America stumbled, he cut his cheek. Blood smeared across his skin. Russia’s heart leapt. He crouched over the writhing nation and America went completely still, restrained chords of energy thrumming through him. His head was tilted back to avoid strangling himself, and his eyes fought to track Russia’s movements. Russia leaned in close enough to hear the broken stutter of America’s breath. Then, he opened his mouth and licked affectionately at the wound.

“What the fuck.” America’s breath hitched at the chill of Russia’s tongue. He tried to turn away, but the scarf caged him. He gagged on the pressure at his throat. With no other choice, he tilted his face back to Russia’s mouth. Russia hummed appreciatively and continued lapping up the blood. It felt warm on his tongue, a familiar flavor that he missed. His own breath trembled against America’s ear.

“I can’t wait to taste every part of you,” he said, his voice thick. He straightened before America could respond. “But first, you have a mess to clean up.”

He pulled America along. Glittering shards of glass trailed after him. By now, America had mostly stopped fighting. His mouth, however, proved a different story.

“Really can’t believe you gave me your scarf like this,” America said through a tight grin. “You must’ve gotten less self-conscious about those ugly scars of yours. Not covering them up anymore?”

Russia yanked on the scarf. America gurgled a stream of consonants, then stopped breathing. Russia assumed a conversational tone. “If you keep talking, I will give you ugly scars. Maybe I will bury you in the snow until your tiny dick freezes and snaps off. Would you like that?”

America choked.

“I cannot understand you. Try again.”

“Kkch.” The more America strained against his binds, the harder it was for him to breathe. He wrestled this way and that, floundering under Russia’s hold. Russia watched his mouth fumble open and shut around nothing. His eyes bulged, teeming with tears he refused to shed. That unhealthy flush returned, staining his skin blue. At last, when America’s eyes started to fade out of focus, Russia released him.

America fell, gasping, to the floor. The ends of his hair turned dark where they landed in a pool of vodka. Some of it was from America’s thrown glass, some from Russia’s own attack on the bottle. America coughed wetly when he inhaled some of it.

“That is the idea.” Russia stepped over the crumpled nation. He rested his back against the wall, frowning at the puddle before him. “America?”

America didn’t look up, still sputtering and wheezing for air. Amusement played at the corner of Russia’s mouth. He knelt, tangled his fingers into America’s hair, and yanked his head upright.

“Lick it up.” Russia cut a hand toward the spill. “This is expensive vodka. You are not going to waste it.”

America scowled. His glasses sat crooked, and his brows twitched over burning blue eyes. “There’s glass in it.” His voice was hoarse from his coughing fit.

“Whose fault is that?”

“ _Yours_ ,” America said. “ _You’re_ the one that broke the bottle, and if you hadn’t said that stupid shit about the president, I wouldn’t—”

Russia stomped on the space between America’s shoulders. The nation went down hard, splashing vodka over Russia’s boots. “Whose fault is it?”

“It’s…your…fault—” America’s voice bubbled off when Russia pushed his face into the puddle. It sucked up into America’s mouth and nose, made his body jerk against his binds.

“Perhaps you are just too stupid to understand how this works,” Russia said smoothly. “Because I know you’re not stupid enough to disobey me on purpose.” He sighed and pulled America’s head up. “I will ask again. Whose fault is it that my expensive vodka is dripping all over the floor?”

America made a small, fractured movement. “…Mine.”

A cold smile crept over Russia’s lips. “What?”

“ _Mine_.” America twisted fruitlessly. “It’s _my_ fault. Okay? I did it. That’s what you want to hear, right? It’s my fault.”

“That is what I thought.” He thrust America forward, holding his head inches from the floor. “Now get it done. Your mess is seeping through my floorboards.”

America glared up at Russia through the ends of his hair. His face was painted red with rage. Blue eyes shined with an emotion Russia could only identify as _hate._ Or perhaps it was arousal. There was always such a fine line between the two, when it came to America. Then, slowly, America dipped his head, closed his eyes, and began sucking the vodka up between puckered lips.

Russia wrenched his head back. “I said lick. Sucking comes later. For now, you lap up your mess like the dog you are.”

America coughed, then choked when he twisted the wrong way. “I _can’t_. I won’t get any of it up that way. This is the best way to—”

“That is so like you.” Russia chuckled. His grip turned soft in America’s hair as he began petting it. “Coming to someone else’s home and telling them what the best course of action is. Fine. If you are so efficient, you won’t mind having a bit more to clean up. I will bring another bottle.”

“ _No._ ” America reared back, and Russia shoved him down again. Russia’s arm trembled as he fought. America was still _strong_ , unbelievably so, it just happened Russia had an advantage this time around. He pushed harder.

“Then get to work. And do it my way.” Russia knelt to watch America’s face. “I want to see your tongue work.”

“This is so gross,” America grumbled beneath his breath. Russia could tell he was avoiding his eyes. Tentatively, his tongue poked out between his lips. Russia felt a jolt run through him. And America started licking up the mess of vodka.

Every time he gagged, Russia wondered if it was because of the flavor, the sting, or the humiliation. He liked to imagine it was all three. He was mostly spreading the liquid around instead of actually cleaning it, and both of them knew it. America’s face warped into a mask of annoyance and disgust. Russia started stroking his hair again, and that only made him look angrier.

“You are doing a terrible job.” Russia’s mouth slanted on a smirk. “So good at making messes, but when it comes to cleaning up after yourself… Are you even trying?”

“I’m trying,” America said, exasperated. Russia pushed his face forward again.

“I do not think you are.” Russia frowned and sat back on his heels, snorting. “‘Greatest country in the world.’ You cannot even do one simple task—”

“I _can_.” America whipped his head up with a scowl. “If you would just let me do it my way, I’d be done already.”

“And your _pride_.” Russia tilted his head and gave a low whistle. America never stopped glaring up at him. There was a warning in his gaze, even though his arms were tied, and his hair was skewed, and his chest was soaked with alcohol. That expression tickled Russia. “I have always admired your stupid determination.”

He watched America watching him. Then, his eyes flicked to America’s jacket, the shirt beneath it.

“Now look at you. You are soaking wet and reek like a drunk whore.”

“I know that smell,” America shot back. “It’s the first thing I notice when I step into your house— _Whoa._ ”

Russia hauled America up by the shoulders. Their eyes met. For a brief moment, that glance, their breath, everything suspended in the air between them. Then, Russia slammed America on his back, pinning him.

“I would tell you to get these clothes off, but it appears you are stuck.” Russia smiled. “Let me help.”

“What?” America’s eyes widened when Russia shoved his jacket off his shoulders. “No, get the fuck—”

Buttons popped out of place and scattered across the floor. Russia held open America’s busted blazer and dress shirt. A green tie hung loose over his exposed chest, which heaved now on frenzied breaths. America squirmed, writhed, and Russia only straddled him more comfortably.

“It has been too long since we’ve last seen each other.” Russia spread a hand over America’s stomach and the muscles there leapt beneath his palm. “We must reacquaint ourselves.”

“Sure. Why don’t you start by reacquainting me with your ass, so I can kick it?” America watched Russia’s fingers raise goosebumps on his skin. He shuddered.

“Oh.” Russia’s thumb circled a small series of scrapes the glass had left behind. They dipped into the crease of America’s hip, dotted the underside of his belly. America tensed. “You are bleeding.”

“Yeah, wonder why that is.” America rolled his eyes, then went back to watching warily. “But I guess you’re gonna tell me that’s not your fault either. Just like the vodka you spilled, or the election you botched.”

Russia only hummed at that. He moved down America’s body and bowed his head close. The heat of America’s skin rolled across Russia’s cheek. He opened his mouth to taste that warmth and his tongue dragged over those cuts. America’s breath hitched.

 _That sound_. Russia’s eyes found America’s through pale lashes. Something around them shifted, slowed. His lip grazed America’s hip. His tongue followed. He watched a shiver dart along America’s nerves and chased it with a kiss. Then, when his gloved hand braced against America’s belt…Russia smirked.

“You’re already getting hard for me.”

“I’m not,” America blurted.

“Ah. Then let me guess. You have brought another gun.” Russia squeezed between America’s legs and felt a spark of satisfaction when he growled. “No. This is too small and delicate to be a gun.”

“Get this _off_.” America jerked on his restraints suddenly. His head snapped back, revealing teeth, as he cut off his own breath. But he kept pulling. Russia heard the stretch of fabric tearing and felt a little flurry of panic. He knew his turtleneck covered his scars but… Instinctively, his hand drifted to his own throat. The other clutched America’s, tight.

“You are going to rip my scarf,” he said, calmly. “That would make me very upset.”

 _Fuck you._ America mouthed the words and kept straining. Russia crushed his thumb against his trachea.

“I mean it,” Russia said, and this time, his voice took on a darker tone. “Don’t break my things, or I will break yours.”

He lifted America by the throat and dragged him, shaking, to his feet. The surge of power Russia felt… It drugged him. This, he imagined, must be how America felt _always_. But now, America was under his thumb. America was next to helpless, a pawn in a game— _Russia’s_ game—and Russia decided he’d play for fun before he claimed his victory.

“Now, America. I know when you said, ‘Get this off,’ you were referring to your clothes, yes?” Russia observed the dark flush creeping over America’s collar. “I can do that for you. Unless you would rather I not?” Russia waited a moment, for a protest that wouldn’t come. His grip tightened on the tender hollow of America’s throat. “I will respect your decision if you say no.”

America gasped silently. His head twitched sideways, like he wanted to shake it, but couldn’t. His shoulders jerked behind him. Russia knew he wanted to claw at his neck. Knew that instinct was turning his muscles to fire and begging him to pull free. Only, he couldn’t do that either. Russia wouldn’t let him. He smiled.

“I am glad you don’t have any objections.” His free hand flipped open America’s belt and tugged down his pants, exposing him. His eyes never left America’s, even as the latter started to lose focus. “I’m right here, America. Look at me.”

America shivered. It might have been from lack of oxygen, or from the sudden rush of air against his skin. Russia rubbed his hand over the side of America’s ass. Felt him twitch.

“Now, I need you to make a decision for me. You must get off on hearing that, considering how much you like to force your choices onto other people.” Finally, when America started to sway on his feet, Russia released him. He clamped the back of his neck instead, waiting, warning. “Sit down. Your body is working too hard.”

Russia pushed America easily with one hand. The pants snaring his ankles took care of the rest. America landed, bare-assed, in Russia’s armchair. His breath hitched, over and over, as he fought to refill his lungs. It took him a moment to concentrate back on Russia, so Russia waited.

“Earlier, I asked you a question. I am going to ask you again.” Russia stepped behind America’s chair. America tried to turn, quickly realized he couldn’t, and slumped. Russia retrieved his pipe from its place against the wall, then settled the cool metal over America’s chest from behind. America pretended not to flinch.

“Which one is colder? This.” Russia asked. He dragged the faucet over America’s flesh and stepped closer. Then, his finger sketched a line up the back of America’s neck. America’s spine arched at the sudden shock of contact. “Or this?”

Even without seeing his face, Russia knew America was scrabbling for words. He settled for a raspy, “Still you.”

Russia smiled and bent to kiss the join of America’s shoulder. America twitched out of the way, so Russia kissed it again. “And you like the cold, yes?”

“No.”

“I think you like the cold,” Russia mused. He hooked the curved end of the pipe into the back of the scarf, tugging lightly. “Because, if you do not like the cold, it will be the warmer of these two things that penetrates you. And I will not stop until I run out of length.”

America’s whole body twisted sideways. His eyes caught on the end of the pipe, then traveled upwards, inspecting the full four feet of metal. Russia nudged it up under his chin so America would look at him. He savored the moment when defeat settled in.

“So, what should I fuck you with, America?”

America snorted a breath. “That’s crass.”

“I am not England.” Russia smiled, thinly. “I know you are used to his polite fawning lately. You will not get that here, but you knew that.” He prodded with the pipe. “Which one?”

“That pipe would impale me. How sexy would that be?” America jerked his chin away. “‘Oh, yeah, sorry America. I scrambled your organs and couldn’t put you together again, but hey—Now, at least your insides match your current political state: Completely fucked.’”

Russia slid the pipe away. Relief melted the tension from America’s muscles. Then, Russia moved in front of him and pulled open the little drawer of his end table. He withdrew a bottle of lubricant; he’d learned to start keeping it there during one of America’s previous visits. Without saying anything, he poured some into his hand and started working it down the length of his pipe.

“Wh—” America squeaked when he realized. He tried struggling, choked himself, then he must have decided he’d had enough asphyxiation because he stopped. “You can’t—Russia, that’ll kill me. Probably. Like, actually kill me. Russia, dude, _stop_.”

Russia perked up at the sound of _desperation_. He cocked his head. “You don’t want this?”

“No, motherfucker. I don’t want that. No. A thousand times, no.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Not to be disemboweled by four feet of— _Stop that_.”

Russia had gone back to slicking up the metal and stopped again. “You have to tell me, America. You are very good at running your mouth. So, tell me what you want in that tight little ass of yours.”

America stared at him. Russia stared back. His hand worked idly over the pipe while he waited. America licked his lips. And, if Russia had not been so fixated on that, so mesmerized by the saliva glistening on his skin, he might have noticed America’s shoulders shifting. He might have realized that, the whole time, America was loosening his binds. America lurched to his feet at the same time his hands broke free.

Metal cracked against bone. America doubled over and clutched at his ribs. He could do that, now that he was unbound. _What a privilege_. Russia stood and struck him again on the wrist, where an ugly purple bruise was already forming from the first time. Then, he dealt a sweeping blow behind America’s knees, toppling him. America went down, hard, on his tailbone. Russia staked the pipe into the tangle of fabric around America’s ankles to hold him there.

“I am getting bored of this,” Russia said flatly. He walked close and America craned his neck to look at him. Russia moved the pipe, so it scraped the inside of America’s thigh. “Your people needed someone to take charge and make their decisions for them. You need the same thing. So, I will help you.” He crouched down, so his lips touched America’s ear. “Tell me you want my cock. Say you want me to fuck you apart with it, and I will.”

America swallowed. The scarf still hung loose around his shoulders. He turned his head slightly, and Russia felt the corner of America’s mouth touch his chin. “What if I don’t?”

“Then you want the pipe.” Russia turned it, so the faucet barred America’s throat.

“I don’t.”

“Your body knows you’re lying.” Russia dropped the pipe suddenly, and the clatter of metal on wood made America jump. His gloved hand closed around America’s erection. America froze. “So hard… I’ve never known you to deny yourself your hedonistic pleasures.”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying,” America said thickly. His knees twitched closer together when he squirmed. “For Lent.”

“I don’t think you know what Lent is.” Russia rubbed his hand up America’s thigh and settled it on his hip instead. His bare hand grasped America’s other hip, producing a shiver. His voice turned gruff in America’s ear. “I think you need a little more motivation.”

Russia pulled with both arms. America tumbled into his chest. Then, before America found his balance, Russia knocked him sideways.

“ _What’s_ your fucking deal?” America caught himself on his hands and knees. He tried to stand. Russia bumped his knees apart. He fell again.

“You used to seem so much stronger to me.” Russia ran the cold steel of his pipe up America’s thigh. “Although, I suppose that was before your boss was wrapped around my boss’s finger.”

“It’s not like that,” America protested. He twitched away from the metal, even as his body melted closer to it. His legs parted, just barely. He _wanted_ it. Something tightened in Russia’s groin.

“It’s not?” Russia used his gloved hand to spread America open. He watched the blonde’s forehead thump against the floor in frustration. “Your president prefers to meet with mine without attendants present. He has spoken no ill about Russia. In fact, he has repeatedly praised my boss for being strong. Powerful. And he blamed the poor relations between our countries on _American stupidity_. We both knew it was your fault we grew apart, but to hear your own _boss_ say it…how does that feel?”

While he spoke, Russia angled the pipe against America’s entrance. America’s body clenched. “ _Russia._ ”

“Hm?” was all Russia could manage. America kept reminding him how cold he was, but there was a heat now, roiling in the pit of his stomach. He shifted against the fabric of his pants, which felt entirely too tight, and pivoted his pipe.

Then, he pushed _in_.

America’s head snapped back with a vocalized groan. Russia didn’t wait, pushed deeper, and listened to America’s panting. His nails raked at the floorboards, so Russia kept going, wanting to know how much he could take, how far he could—

“Stop, wait, stop,” America’s voice strained.

“No,” Russia said, and he didn’t.

He kept edging the metal rod in, inch by careful inch, while America’s arms began to shake, and a low whine crept through the air. “I told you, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to take it, because that’s what I want.”

“Then _fuck_ me,” America gasped. “But not like this. Ah—A different way. Just, fucking—”

Russia met resistance. He hadn’t used enough lube, America felt too tight around the pipe, and the little spasms rocking through him weren’t helping. Russia stopped pushing. America rasped a sigh as he began to withdraw. He pulled the pipe out almost entirely. Almost. And America almost seemed relieved. Until Russia’s hand twitched, and his intention became clear. He shifted the angle of the pipe, tensed his hand against it, and just as he was about to force it in again, _deep_ —

“Your cock,” America blurted. Panic sharpened his voice and, embarrassed, he muffled it with his arm. “Fill me with it. Instead. The pipe is—I can’t—Please.”

Russia paused. That heat trickled, wet, into the rest of his body. He leaned forward and braced an arm against the floor to speak into America’s ear. “You want me to fuck you open on my cock.”

America shuddered. “Sure. Yeah. Yes.”

“Because the pipe is too much for you to handle?”

“No, I can take it, I just—” America gasped a dry sound when Russia pulled his hair.

“I am not convinced.” He tightened his grip, exposing America’s throat entirely. “If you can take the pipe, I don’t see why I shouldn’t continue—”

“I _love_ …how thick you are. And. And the way you move your hips. I…” America whimpered, and Russia had to close his eyes against a fluid wave of satisfaction. “It’s been…so long since I’ve felt you thrusting inside me, and… Fuck, don’t make me beg for it. You want it too.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Russia growled. But then he was sitting back again, wrestling apart the fastenings of his pants. His breath stuttered out of him, ragged. “You really need it, don’t you? To feel someone pounding into your ass until your knees buckle and you remember who does you better than anyone else.”

Russia tossed the pipe out of his way. With one hand, he held America open, exposed before him. With the other, he shoved his pants down around his hips. He lined up the head of his cock against America’s hole. That warmth sent a jolt of shivers through him. He nudged his hips forward and felt that tightness struggle to accommodate him. America grunted.

“Too much,” America said, hoarse. “God, you need—Lube or something. You’re…fucking _thick_.”

A chuckle rumbled through Russia’s chest. “It really has been too long since anyone’s fucked you right.”

Russia almost kept pushing, forcing America to accept his girth. Heat, such a _tight_ heat, squeezed the tip of him. Then, he reached around to America’s front and grabbed his cock. America’s hips trembled.

“I have a new plan.” Russia squeezed and something hot dripped between his fingers. America hitched another breath. “Get up.”

Russia withdrew, leaving America empty. He crossed over to his armchair and sat, watching. America stayed still. Finally, he dragged himself onto his knees, still facing the other way.

“Come to me, America.”

America’s inhale shook his whole body. He held it and glanced over his shoulder. Russia crooked a finger at him. He smirked when America’s eyes flickered to his exposed length. He settled back in his chair, spreading his legs more comfortably.

“Come, I said. Do not make me repeat myself.”

Slowly, America pulled himself to his feet. He was back to being cautious, suspicious, and Russia _loved it_. He pulled off his other glove and palmed himself while he waited. America made a stuck noise and kicked the pants off his ankles. He walked over, looked at Russia’s lap, then met his eyes again. Russia’s cock twitched at that expression.

“What, you want me to ride you?”

“No.” Russia grabbed America’s hips and pulled him forward.

America stumbled into his lap. Russia hooked an arm around his hips and drew him down to straddle his thighs. He shoved America’s jacket and blazer off his shoulders, until all he wore was his unbuttoned dress shirt, a disheveled tie, and Russia’s scarf.

“You said you wanted more lubricant, because you were babied by people who don’t know how well you can take a cock.” Before America could protest, Russia closed his fingers around him. “ _I_ know how good you are. How much you need it.”

“You’re like ice,” America breathed. His eyes flicked between Russia’s own and Russia stared back. He slid his hand, lightly, over America’s length. A tremor skittered up the younger nation’s spine.

“You missed this,” Russia said. As though to prove his point, America nudged his hips up into Russia’s palm. Russia made a hungry noise in the back of his throat and gripped him harder. “I’m going to fuck you with your own cum. How do you like that?”

America inhaled. “Once I finish, there’s no more reason for me to stay. I’ll get the fuck out of here.”

“No.” Russia smirked. “You’re going to stay and have as many orgasms as I decide to give you.” His eyes dropped to his palm, moving up and down between them. “But you think I’m going to do all the work for you? Give me your hand.”

His hand closed over America’s as he guided America’s fingers around them both. Their cocks nudged together, and America gasped at the shock of sensation. Russia glanced at his face, but America focused between them, mesmerized by how hard they both were, how comfortably their bodies pressed together. Russia squeezed, forcing America to squeeze them both.

“You’re going to jerk us both off, until you’re coming in your own hand, rubbing me slick with it, and I’ll bend you over and give it to you right.”

America grimaced, but his body shifted closer. He kept picking at the collar of Russia’s shirt with his free hand, like he wanted it off but wouldn’t dare ask. “How do you know you won’t come too? Ruin your plans?”

“I have some semblance of self-control.” Russia nipped at America’s ear and listened to him squeak. “And _I’m_ not the one repressing my desires. I think about you, America. Often. I don’t sit around, trying to convince myself I don’t want this, until it builds up into something you can’t even fucking refuse anymore.”

“You think about me?”

Russia heard his question. But he really did _not_ like repeating himself. Instead, he began working America’s hand up and down over their cocks. They slid together, hot and thick and _sensitive_. For a moment, Russia closed his eyes. He could feel America’s hips grinding against him. Hear the breathy little murmurs streaming off America’s lips. He snatched America’s hair and dragged him in until their lips brushed, and their breaths jumbled into sync.

“That’s right,” Russia purred between his teeth. “Rub your cock against me. Play with it, just like that.”

America groaned. “Not like I…have a fucking _choice_.”

America’s fingers spasmed around them. Russia cursed, bumping his hips up to meet America’s own. He felt the pulsing of America’s cock, heard his ragged gasps and groans. He opened his eyes on an upstroke and watched a bead of pre-cum ooze out. He smeared it with his thumb and pumped their hands faster.

“You’re dripping all over my dick.” Russia shuddered on an exhale. He swiped his tongue over America’s lips, ice against fire. “So much pre-cum leaking out of you… _Look_ at it.” He jerked America’s head into place, so he had no other option. He let go of them both for a second, letting him see the string of pre-cum that hung between their skin. “I bet you’re fantasizing about what I’m going to do to you next. How bad you want me to shove your face into the couch and fuck you until your throat is raw from screaming my name. Don’t you have any shame?”

“You’re not fucking—special. Okay? Yeah, when you rub someone’s dick long enough, they’re gonna—Fuck.” His voice broke when Russia bit the side of his neck. Blood prickled on his skin and Russia licked it up, tender.

“I know your body, America. Better than you do. You’re _close._ ” Russia stroked the heads of their cocks with his thumb. America kept pumping his hand, up and down, faster, harder. His breaths started to stutter on broken syllables. Russia bit the turn of his jaw. “Very good boy… Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m thinking about, how I’m gonna kick your _ass_. And I can’t, I’m…” America’s mouth opened on a hitched groan. Russia’s eyes flicked to his face. Just then, America’s eyes fluttered, and his forehead pressed into the crook of Russia’s neck. “I’m thinking, I’m gonna… I’m close. I’m fucking…so close— _Russia_.”

“I _know_ ,” Russia growled. He bucked his hips into a steady rhythm now. A pulse of pleasure ran through him, but he thrust it back down. His hand worked faster, driving America’s faster, and then—He pushed his mouth to America’s ear and snarled. “I’m gonna make you come all over my cock, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh— _Shit_.” America’s voice broke. His hips stuttered upwards, jerking on a wave of pleasure. His mouth opened on a wet, desperate gasp. “No, no, no, no, no, fuck. _Fuck_.”

Something warm, sticky, spilled over Russia’s cock. It pulsed from America in waves, turning his whimpers to open-mouthed moans. Russia stilled his hand, watching America’s body clench and spasm with pleasure. Then, he continued with quick, short strokes, smearing cum and drawing out America’s orgasm until he ran empty.

America melted against him, breathing harsh. Russia cradled the back of his head and tried not to focus on that throbbing _need_ echoing through him. Somehow, through all of that, he’d managed not to come. His nerves felt oversensitive, raw. He wiped the rest of America’s mess on his own stiff cock and forced his breathing to calm.

“America?” Russia kissed his temple and America shifted back. His eyes were glazed behind crooked glasses.

“Huh?”

Russia stood, suddenly. America cried out. His legs wrapped around Russia’s waist and Russia held him up, kissing him deep, hungry. His cock rubbed against America’s ass and Russia groaned into his mouth. He sucked America’s tongue into his mouth and bit it, hard. America made a pained sound, raked his nails up the back of Russia’s neck, and Russia groaned again.

“I told you what I’m going to do to you,” Russia grumbled against his lips. “I know how much you hate coming around nothing.”

He pulled America off of him and set him on unsteady legs. America wobbled, finding his footing, and Russia slipped behind him, laying a gentle kiss upon the back of his neck. He watched the shiver run all the way up America’s spine. Then, he twisted America’s arms up behind his back and bent him over the arm of the sofa.

“Hey—” America squirmed halfheartedly. Russia braced one arm across his back and forced him down harder. His ass wriggled bare in the air, so Russia raked his nails down over it. America yelped, tried to jerk away. Russia held him still.

“I was nice to you,” Russia said. “So, you’re going to take all of me. And I don’t want to hear any more whining.”

Russia’s cock was slick, throbbing in his hand. He pushed it in between America’s legs, feeling him stretch to accommodate the rounded tip of him. And America was _warm_. Russia groaned deep. One arm held America’s in place, crossed over the small of his back. The other planted on America’s hip, sliding him down Russia’s length, stretching him, filling him. America made a muffled noise against the sofa.

“Mmm.” Russia stopped halfway to watch the shaking in America’s legs start up again. “Been a while since you've been this full?”

“No,” America growled. “Other people just actually _prepare_ me first—Fuck.”

Russia snapped his hips forward, driving his cock deep inside. America shouted, and that lilted off into a groan. His face turned against the cushions to muffle his sounds. Russia withdrew slowly. This time, when he thrust back inside, he wrenched America’s head back by the hair.

“ _God_ —dammit. Goddammit.” America choked on a breath. He struggled to turn his head, probably so Russia could see his snarling face, but Russia didn’t let him. “Fuck you.”

Russia groaned, withdrawing only halfway before thrusting in again. “You feel so tight around my cock. A perfect little fuck toy.”

“I’m not—”

Russia shoved America’s face into the pillows before he could finish. His fingers tightened in his hair, pulling, as he swung his hips back and forth. America’s cum slid wet against him. It slicked up the walls of America’s ass, made it easier to fuck him, and he wondered if America knew how _lucky_ he was because he first intended to go in _dry_.

“This is what happens, when you come to my house, looking like you do, when you haven’t bothered to visit in fucking _ages_.” Russia’s hand spasmed on America’s hip, hard enough to bruise. He pulled America back against him at the same time he slammed _in_ , and America moaned. “You’ve been fucking around with other people. That’s fine. But you will never forget who fucks you best.”

“Jesus…fucking Christ.” America’s fingers curled behind his back. His knees bowed and he would have fallen if he weren’t pinned between Russia and the couch. Russia knew his cock was rubbing against the sofa, knew he was hard again, already. Hard for _him_.

Russia clawed at America’s skin. His hips rocked back and forth until a steady slapping rhythm kicked up between them. Russia let himself buckle forward, crushing America under his weight. “Who’s fucking you?”

Russia angled upwards and— _There._ America cried out. His muscles clenched around Russia’s cock and Russia knew he hit the right spot. He drove himself into America’s prostate again, over and over, until America’s voice shattered into broken vowels. “Ah-Ah, oh—Fff… Mmn, ah—”

“Who’s fucking you right now?” Russia demanded. His hips ground forward, relentless, smacking against America’s ass. And now, that fire was everywhere, everywhere, filling his blood like such delicious poison. He yanked America’s head back. “ _Who?_ ”

“You—You are. _Ah._ Russia. You’re—fucking me so good.”

“And you’re mine, to fuck however I want, until I’m coming inside you like the dirty toy you are. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” America all but sobbed. “God, Russia, _yes_.”

“A proud country like you should never let someone treat you like this. Let alone, _get off on it._ ” Russia pressed his forehead between America’s shoulders. His own breathing turned ragged when he laughed. “But you did not come to me to play the part of a good country. You came because you wanted to be my filthy little whore, didn’t you?”

America just groaned. Russia grabbed his hips, jerking himself off with him. There was a pressure building behind his balls, shredding his thoughts to ribbons. A pulse of pleasure escaped him when America said, “I’m just a—filthy…fucking whore.”

Russia moaned. His nails dug little red crescents into America’s hips. His cock throbbed every time America clenched around him. He wasn’t going to last. “ _Whose?_ ”

“ _Yours!_ ” America cried out, and his muscles started to tense. “Yours, god, I’m yours. Your fuck toy. Your slut. Your… _Yours_.”

_Yours._

Russia’s vision went white-hot. He buckled down over America, hips stuttering on sudden jerks of ecstasy. He moaned, a gruff, broken sound, and maybe he said America’s name, but America’s climax hit too hard for him to hear. All at once, the heat was escaping him in gushes and spasms and groans. It felt _good_ , so good, and he dragged America close, burying himself deep, until he stopped coming. Until America was filled and dripping with the only heat Russia had to offer.

Little aftershocks still rocked them both, minutes later. America shifted weakly below, so Russia pulled himself up onto shaky arms. He didn’t want to pull out. Didn’t want to leave behind America’s heat, now that he had none of his own inside him. But it didn’t matter what Russia wanted, so he withdrew, savoring America’s tiny noise of protest.

Russia stood back to watch America stand. The blonde trembled, pulling himself first onto one elbow, and then the other, and shoving himself upright. It took a moment for him to find his footing again. When he did, it was with the help of the couch he was leaning on. He turned to Russia with bright blue eyes.

Russia’s heart panged. He stepped away to retrieve America’s glasses from where they lay discarded on the couch. Carefully, he settled them back on America’s face. Then, he dragged a palm over the arm of his sofa, and it came away slick.

“You made another mess,” Russia said, indicating the stain on his upholstery.

“ _You_ made it,” America shot back, and Russia didn’t look at him still, because he knew he was smiling. _This fool_. “Either way, just…don’t make me lick that one up too, ‘kay?”

“Of course not. You did a terrible job last time.” Russia gestured to the vodka still spreading across his floor. Then, his hands came back to his pants and he pulled them up again. Finally, he reached out toward America. “I will be taking my—”

America stared at him. He was in the process of wiping his hand clean…on the scarf Russia was reaching for. “Oh, uh. Oops.”

Russia pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you gather your things, before you soil any more of mine.” Even without looking up, Russia could feel those blue eyes on him. He sighed. “Can you walk straight?”

“Awe, concerned about me?”

“I just don’t want you trying to stay the night.”

“Ha ha.” America took a few test steps. His legs still shook, but he carried himself well. It was no surprise; they’d survived rougher times together.

Then, without warning, Russia found himself saying, “I do look forward to building a better relationship again. The two of us.”

He didn’t look up when he said it. Instinctively, his hands went to his neck, but they closed around empty air. His scarf, his object of security, was not there. He wove his fingers together instead and, suddenly, he felt very small, like he was talking to an angry boss. He only raised his eyes after a long stretch of silence. They found America’s, those lakes of cerulean fire, and stuck.

“This wasn’t the way to do it,” America said, and his voice sounded low, serious.

Russia matched his sobriety. “I know.”

They looked at each other a moment longer, like that. Russia standing tall with his hands twisted up near his neck. America, fully naked and unabashed, and still managing to command the space after all they’d done together. America was the first to glance away. He moved to retrieve his gun, then his clothes, strewn into puddles of vodka.

“If you missed me, you could just say that. You know? You could just tell me. That’s a thing.”

“Mm.”

Russia didn’t have anything else to say. He moved to the cupboard, grabbed a rag, and dropped it over the stale puddle of alcohol. America kept talking, as America was prone to do.

“But hey.” He stepped forward, tucking all of his belongings into one arm. “Actions speak louder than words? Do you have a Russian equivalent for that?”

“In Russia, we say, ‘ _Bodlivoy korove bog rog ne dayot._ ” Russia watched the liquid soak into the rag, turning it dark. “It means, ‘God doesn’t give horns to the cow that likes to gore.’”

“Oh. ‘Kay. Well, what I’m saying is…” America was right beside him now. Russia raised his chin, but not his eyes, and listened. “You went through a lot of effort—A lot of really shady, evil effort but, like, effort—to make this happen. Because you…really thought it would bring us closer together. And that’s…super fucked up. But also? Kind of admirable, I guess? It was pretty ambitious of you, anyway.”

“Yes, well, you are not the only stubborn fool with bad ideas.” Russia sighed and turned to look at him. It was funny, in a very humorless way, how America could always go back to being the brightest thing in the room, even when you thought you’d snuffed his flame. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“To chew you out.” America cocked his head. “And…maybe because I missed you too. And I actually don’t have a hard time saying that, actually.”

“Mm.”

They stood there again, for what felt like a longer time than the first. Unsurprisingly, America broke the silence.

“Hey, check it out. You can see the moon starting to come up.” He ducked over to the window and Russia watched him move. Something lifted the corner of his mouth, just a bit. “I guess that’s one benefit of it being a dark, wintry hell twenty hours out of every day.” He paused, then looked over his shoulder. “You want to come look at it with me? I can finish kicking your ass over this election garbage later.”

Russia did feel a spark of something warm then. Something that very nearly felt like it came from within him, even though he knew it wasn’t true. As soon as America left, he’d feel cold again. He walked forward anyway and stood still beside him.

“Hm. Waxing Gibbous,” Russia commented.

“What?” America’s head whipped around. “That’s waning. It’s totally waning.”

“No, America. Waxing Gibbous.”

“Dude, I know the moon. It’s wax—Er, waning? I said waning. Yeah. It’s waning.”

“How can you put your flag on the moon when you don’t even know its phases?”

“How can you put your dick in my ass when you don’t even know the articles of my Constitution?”

Russia sighed. “I do.”

“Oh.” America gazed back out of the window. “Touché.”

America leaned against him and— _warmth._ Outside and in. It was all Russia could focus on, after that. Even if he knew winter would always return.


End file.
